


Rat-a-tat

by ayasegawoah



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Totsuka makes a fleeting appearance, also rated T for swearing, urgh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 10:38:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7099498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayasegawoah/pseuds/ayasegawoah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stop groaning, already, monkey,” Misaki says when he can no longer see Totsuka, “it’s not like I asked for this either.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rat-a-tat

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooo I posted this fic on tumblr a while ago, and thought I might as well dump it here. There are probably some mistakes and typos, so I apologise for that.

Fushimi stares at the tiled wall in front of him as hot water runs down his back. He rests his head against the tiles, closes his eyes as his body slowly relaxes. It’s been a tiring day, to say the least. He had woken up with his back hurting, and the feeling had followed him through most of the day. It ebbed away as he ate his dinner, but fixing a broken washing machine, cleaning his flat, and doing his weekly grocery shopping coupled with the sensation that a truck had ran over him all night weren’t things he had wished to try out—hell, he looked so pathetic the neighbours to his left even waved at him as he was carrying his bags back inside his flat.

He cringes and opens his eyes at the memory, feeling a shiver running down his back. “What was with him, anyway?” he mutters quietly, straightening himself up.

He shakes his head as if to get rid of the thought and looks up, his face instantly getting wet by the water as the last remnants of shampoo disappear down the drain. He closes the tap and sighs, running a hand through his soaked hair to brush back his bangs. He slides the door shut and grabs two towels; wrapping the bigger of the two around his waist and scrubbing his scalp with the smaller one as he steps out of the shower. It takes him a good five minutes, which he spends by looking at everywhere but the mirror. Once he deems his hair dry enough, he dries the rest of his body, letting the small towel hanging around his neck.

Embarrassingly, he almost falls putting on his underwear, but he smoothly manages to catch himself on the sink before he hit the floor. A curse naturally slips from his mouth as he straightens himself up. He then ensures to carefully puts the rest of his clothes on—an old oversized white tee-shirt, a cream zip hoodie that is far too small, making it routine for him to roll the sleeves up, and grey bermuda shorts that, surprisingly, fit—and finally his glasses. He clicks his tongue at the sight of his reflection staring right back at him, and puts a hand on his hip.

“I guess I’ll need to trim my hair soon,” he murmurs to himself, taking his toothbrush. He leans against the wall to his left and starts brushing his teeth, mentally counting the centimeters he’ll have to cut.

He finds his thoughts are interrupted by a quiet noise, so quiet he almost believes he imagined it. But it occurs again, this time a little more loudly, and he stops in his tracks. Could it be the neighbour? The guy did always makes a lot of noise at ungodly hours—hours deemed ungodly by society, but evening on Fushimi’s own schedule, really—and Fushimi observed he had a passion for weird and cacophonous hobbies, such as playing the guitar at 1am in the fucking morning, or blowing up some food in his microwave at 3am—he heard it all, from the _BOOM!_ to the “oh, fuck! Oh! Fuck!”, the “MY FOOD EXPLODED IN MY MICROWAVE IZUMO WHAT DO I DO?!” and said Izumo actually showing up at 4am because clearly the food had been fucked up that bad—so it wouldn’t be surprising if it were him. Although it seemed far too quiet, but Fushimi shrugs off the idea; he probably finally found a decent, peaceful hobby. Yeah, that’s it.

Fushimi continues his routine of brushing his teeth, and it’s while he’s rinsing his mouth that he hears it again. It sounds like claws scratching at a wall or a door, but it seems louder this time, _closer _.__ He frowns and stands still, pricking up his ears. The clawing starts again. Did it just last longer? Fushimi clicks his tongue. It’s not that he believes in ghosts or anything, after all “ghosts are only illusions caused by electromagnetic waves and fluctuation in their frequency”, but noises coming from unknown sources are annoying, even more so when they happen more than once.

_Skriiik, skriiik._

_There it is again,_ Fushimi thinks, clicking his tongue in annoyance. Where the hell is it coming from? It seems to be actually inside his flat, and he begins to feel the hairs on the back his neck stand up. He clicks his tongue once more, and the clawing starts again. Alright, it’s indeed coming from here.

Fushimi grunts. Whatever the fuck is outside his bathroom, he’s going to crush it down for its insolence. He grabs his phone, wondering if the washing machine broke once again or if it’s just the oven acting up like last time. _Probably the oven,_ he thinks as he strolls to the door. His appliances had a tendency to break down eventually.

“Maybe it’s the clothes horse,” Fushimi muses to himself as he reaches to open the door, “it was making this kind of noise last time. But it seemed to make this noise because-”

The words get stuck in his throat at the sight in front of him. There, right there, less than five centimeters away from _his_ feet, is a __rat _,___ a fucking _ _ _ __rat _,______ staring up at him _ _ _ _ _ __innocently _.________ It lets out small squeak, and Fushimi reels, backing away until his back meets the wall. He curses and grabs the door of the shower, eyes fixed on the rat—which is staring right back at him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, briefly trying merge with the door—it doesn’t work, of course. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck. _”__

He glances back to the rat and swallows a lump down his throat. Of all the things that could have happened, of all the animals that could have been incessantly clawing at his door, it just had to be a damned rat. Great. The rat squeaks as it takes a few steps in the bathroom and he lets out a cry (a rather embarrassing one at that).

“No, no, no, don’t come closer,” he whimpers, but the rodent only squeaks again in answer.

Fushimi stares as the rat looks around and sniffs at the air, his whole body frozen as his heart is pounds in his chest. _Shit, think of a plan, quick,_ he tells himself, but the only things that come to his mind are rats, rats, dirt, rats, infection and rats. His grip on the door tightens and he closes his eyes.

“Fucking hell, why does it have to come down to this? Come on,” he mutters in an attempt to find some power to move, but the question itself only strengthens the images of rats running rampant in his mind. He shakes his head to dispel the memory of small rats crawling on him, and firmly keeps his eyes open, knowing that keeping them shut would only bring back bad memories, particularly of—his—laughter. The boy grumbles, barely audible yet there’s almost a cry of help within it. “Don’t come near me,” he whispers to the rat, but it sounds more like a plea than an actual warning, and he can feel his whole body begin to shake.

The damned rat squeaks and he jumps back, hitting his hand against the shower. Cursing, he shakes his hand in an attempt to rid himself of the pain. While uselessly massaging his hand with the other, he pockets his phone, not wanting to drop it. His hand is a rather ugly shade of red, and just _perfect, _he can see it already swelling. The fucking rat squeaks once again, and Fushimi clicks his tongue before whipping his head around to glare at it.__

“What,” he snaps out of habit, “can’t you see I’m busy?”

The rat lets out an offended squeak, and Fushimi freezes when he realizes what he’s just done. He glances down at it, and a smirk makes its way on his lips.

 _Right,_ he thinks, __it’s just a rat. It’s not going to do anything _—___ and if there’s something that sounds awfully familiar to _ _ _his___ voice, murmuring “are you sure”, he’ll pretend later he never heard it.

Fushimi nods to himself.

_Yeah, I can do it._

His heart is racing, knees shaking and there’s an ever so faint laughter he can’t quite manage to block out, but he shrugs it off anyway when he spots the towel he used for his hair earlier, and grabs it as an idea makes its way into his mind. He glances at the rat, and seizes the towel with both hands.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he assures himself, taking a step towards the rodent, then sure enough, another. His hands are trembling, but the laughter is threatening to grow louder, almost as if mocking his cowardice, so he takes another step.

“Don’t you dare think about crawling on me” he hisses to the rat, extending his arms towards it to stop himself from thinking about _that_ day _— _I can do it, I can do it, I can catch it.__

The rat squeaks, but stays still.

“Yes, that’s it, don’t move,” Fushimi says, and distantly, he hears the laughter fading away. “Just stay there and I’ll get you out, alright?”

It’s gonna be alright, he tells himself, yeah. He’s almost there, almost, only one meter away. Except that it’s at this time the rat chooses to move, and it crawls right towards Fushimi.

A high-pitched scream escapes the boy’s mouth, and before he knows it, his body is moving on its own. Escaping the bathroom as fast as he can, he makes for the front door. He spots his keys on the lock—thankfully he forgot to put them on his desk—and, as soon as they’re in his reach, he turns them and opens the door. He almost crashes against the wall, _almost,_ but he doesn’t, and slams the door shut. He fidgets with the keys for a while, his hands shaking like there’s no tomorrow, but he manages to lock the door. He takes a deep breath and lets himself slide against the wall, bringing his legs to his chest and buries his head into his arms as he folds them on his knees. Sparing a glance at the clock his phone, he sighs. 10:32pm. Tonight’s sure going to be a long night.

☆

Yata leans on his chair as the character on the screen of his laptop dies for the nth time. He sighs and crosses his arms behind his head, the pixels on the screen turning into a laughing white skull.

“Well, can’t be helped, I guess,” he mutters.

He scratches his still-wet hair and pouts at his screen, then looks around him. His gaze falls upon his laundry basket, and he takes a quick look at his watch. 12:53am.

He stares at the basket for a while, then, with a sigh, stands up. He grabs his basket and his keys, then heads for the launderette.

☆

Fushimi stares as the star explodes, making a little _plish_ as glitter covers the screen, the light illuminating the dark corridor.

“You’ve reached level 152, congrats!“ announces the animated doughnut, an annoying smile on its pink lips.

Fushimi sighs, and looks at the door in front of him— _his own_ door—and then at the time on his phone. 12:53am. He leans his head against the wall and winces; his butt hurts.

He’s been sitting on the floor for nearly two hours and a half, playing games on his phone to kill time. But he’s starting to get bored, even though he’s managed to pass seventy-one levels of his game; he’s cold, and a little sleepy. Occasionally as he’s played, he felt like going back inside, but every time he let that thought spiral, images of the rat played in his head, a faint laughter replacing its squeaks, and Fushimi shakes his head—he refuses to go back there with it inside.

Fushimi adjusts his glasses and embraces his legs with his arms, curling a little more on himself. Putting his smartphone on his feet, he stares down at the screen, which illuminates for some seconds as he clicks on the "start level 153” button.

 _Having a rat in his apartment has its perks, it seems,_ the boy thinks as he swiftly clicks on doughnuts and ice-creams. __Bing!__ A little sun explodes.

“Five more to go!” announces the screen.

He smirks as he destroys two little suns in one move. _Damn right,_ he thinks. He quickens his pace, ready to pass the level.

A rattling sound to his left causes Fushimi to suddenly raise his head as a key is turned into a lock. The doors opens, and he arches an eyebrow. Who the hell goes out of their apartment at—he checks his phone—12:54am? Oh.

The boy stares as a short, red-haired young man steps out of his apartment, holding a basket full of laundry, apparently unaware of Fushimi’s presence.

_Bi-doooooom!_

Fushimi startles and looks down at his screen.

“You’ve lost!” announces the animated doughnut, a pout on its animated lips, and the suns take him back to the map.

 _Weeeeeeeeeeee!_ Fushimi glares at his screen as the scream of the suns fills the corridor.

“Huh?”

☆

Yata stares down at the boy sitting on the floor, confused. Only illuminated by the screen of his phone, his black hair shines oddly, and some of his bangs fall in front of the rectangular glasses he’s wearing— what a nerd, Yata thinks. He’s wearing a beige zip hoodie, along with a white tee-shirt and some kind of long dark shorts, the latter being so clearly oversized for him, that Yata is certain it could fit two guys of his stature. He’s barefooted, Yata also notes, and he feels a little empathy for him—it’s winter, after all.

“Huh?” Yata says, and he shakes his head, “what are you doing here?”

The boy glances up at him and blinks, but gives no answer. _Damn, a silent one._

“Did you lose your key?” Yata still tries, “or are you waiting for someone?”

The boy doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just stares at him with bright blue eyes, and Yata can’t tell if it’s because of the boy’s phone, but they seem to glow.

“There’s… a rat in my apartment,” the boy mumbles.

Yata tilts his head, taken off guard. Well, that certainly wasn’t the answer he was expecting.

“Oh?” he takes some steps towards the boy, “a rat?”

Nerdy nods; his phone goes off, leaving only a black silhouette before Yata’s eyes.

“Eh,” Yata grunts, putting down his basket and feeling the wall so that he can switch the light on. He curses under his breath as the task reveals itself to be a little harder than he thought.

The light suddenly turns back on, and Yata looks at the boy, whose hand is somehow on the light switch. Yata discreetly swallows a lump down his throat as he notices that, this way, with his tee-shirt hanging, he has the perfect view of the boy’s pale collarbones, along with a part of his chest. He feels himself blushing, and tries to remember what they were talking about before the light went out. It takes him a while—thanks to the boy being totally oblivious that his skin is _showing in an unfair and obscene way _—__ but he finally manages to re-direct his skewed thoughts. Rats.

“You scared of rats?” Yata asks, and blue eyes widen at his question. Nerdy quickly regains his composure, but Yata grins; scared of rats it is.

The boy clicks his tongue, “I’m not.”

Yata smiles. That’s… kind of cute, actually. In an odd way.

“No way,” he mutters, and he can’t help but smile wider.

The boy’s eyes darken, and his lips slightly turn into a frown, and Yata immediately wants to apologize, but Nerdy beats him to it.

“And how is that any of your concern, _shorty _?__ ”

Yata’s smile drops at the word. Judging from the dark smirk the boy is sporting, he knew exactly what buttons to press. He frowns in response.

“I’m not short,” he says, brows furrowed.

The boy lets out a chuckle, which would normally sound lovely if Yata wasn’t presented with the sly grin plastered on his smug face and an ever so obnoxious tone in his voice. _What a provoking little shit._

“You sure about that? I think I might step on you if we met on the streets,” the boy scoffs, and Yata looks at him in disbelief.

He shuts his eyes for a couple of seconds, attempting to calm his temper. “Well, thank you,” he grits out, his lips curving into a fake smile, “here I was, trying to help you, but seeing as you’re being such an asshole…”

“Who said I wanted you to help me?” Nerdy rudely interrupts, and drops his arm— _fuck,_ Yata thinks, and he almost slaps himself for it—as his eyes shoot daggers at him.

“Well, I don’t know, but you seemed pretty desperate when I got out of my room,” Yata says, and he almost smiles as the black-haired boy frowns.

“Excuse me?” the boy raises his voice a little, “I look desperate? _I,_ look desperate?! Take a look at yourself.”

Yata opens his mouth, dumfounded. He takes a step forwards without noticing.

“And how exactly do I look desperate, Glasses?”

Said-Glasses stands up, a smirk on his face.

“Do you see what you’re wearing?” motioning to Yata’s choice of attire with his index, “your oversized clothes make you look like a thug. Disgusting.”

It takes all of Yata’s will to not punch the guy. You’re lucky to be ~~_pretty_~~ _wearing glasses,_ he thinks, because his fists ache to punch him.

“You might want to check yourself first, monkey. Your clothes are more oversized than mine,” Yata retorts.

“My goal isn’t to look like a thug, at least,” the boy crosses his arms and looks him up and down disapprovingly.

“Well, you might not look like a thug but you’re a fucking dick,” Yata retaliates, also crossing his arms.

“I’m being the dick?” the boy snorts, gesturing to Yata with his hand, “look who’s talking. Insulting strangers in the corridor, it’s very rude, you know.”

“Excuse me? Suddenly _I’m_ insulting strangers in the corridor?” Yata puts his hands on his hips, “don’t fucking shift the blame to me when you’re being a congenital dick, asshole.”

The boy’s eyes darken at the speed light, and he takes a step dangerous towards Yata, “Say that again, fucking ginger,” he barks.

Yata feels his blood freezing in his veins, and he strolls to the boy, “What the fuck did you just call me, jerk?” he growls out between gritted teeth.

“I called you “fucking ginger”, freeloader,” the boy spits to his face, and Yata seizes him by the collar of his tee-shirt. _He’s not even ginger!_

Their faces are inches apart, and the boy is clearly taller than Yata, but he couldn’t care less—although it’s a pity they’re in the middle of a fight at that moment, because just by a brief glance, Yata sees his now exposed chest and is most definitely sure the view is better from up close.

“Fucking nerd, I’m going to kick your sorry ass,” Yata hisses, closing the small distance between their faces.

“Who said I was sorry, shorty?” Nerdy aimlessly retorts back. He also grabs him by the collar, and Yata begins to feel a soft breeze stroking his now-exposed shoulder and stomach, and thinks he would usually blush and stutter given the circumstance, but he’s too angry to give it further thought right now.

“It’s an idiom, you bureaucrat.”

“I know dimwit, and bureaucrat isn’t an insult so shut up.”

Yata yanks at the boy’s collar, causing him to stagger a little. In return, he grasps Yata’s collar with his other hand, and brings his face closer to him. Their noses brush and he can feel his breath on his face, and a part of his mind takes note that it smells of mint, but it’s soft and kind of bewitching.

“Shut the fuck up, monkey,” Yata grasps him by the collar with his other hand, fingertips accidentally brushing against pale skin.

“Sorry what did you call me, shorty? I can’t hear you from up here,” the boy smirks down at him as the other frowns.

“I said shut the fu-”

“My, my. Is that you two making all this noise?”

☆

Fushimi slightly jumps and looks to his left. A blond man stand some meters away, donning only a pastel blue bathrobe with a gentle smile on his lips.

“To-Totsuka!” the redhead Fushimi is holding by the collar stutters, straightening his position a little. “Did we wake you up?”

The blond man—Totsuka, apparently—chuckles and crosses his arm on his chest. “You didn’t,” he smiles gently and tilts his head, “my shift starts in less than one hour. But may I ask what you two are doing here at this time of the night? Misaki, is this a friend of yours?”

“No way,” Fushimi balks at the exact same time as the redhead. The redhead glares at him, then adds in a gentler tone (along with a slight pout), “and I told you to not call me Misaki. It’s Yata.”

Totsuka smiles sheepishly, and tilts his head to the left.

“Ah, sorry,” he says, and, after grinning at the redhead, his gazes averts to Fushimi. The boy feels unnerved under the stare, and manages to swallow a lump down his throat. “What are you boys doing here?”

The redhead— _Misaki,_ Fushimi internally amends—opens his mouth as if to answer, but, when nothing comes out, Fushimi straightens himself up.

“There’s a rat in my apartment,” he says flatly, doing his best to sound as annoyed as he can—like he wasn’t holding some shorty by the neck of his tee-shirt that he was about to fight only two minutes ago.

Misaki looks at him in disbelief, loosening a bit his grip on his collar.

“Oooh, a rat?” Totsuka repeats, sounding surprised.

“Yeah.” Fushimi expects the blond to drop the subject and forget about him, but instead the man tilts his head— _again,_ Fushimi observes—and smiles.

“Praying for it to know how to open a window and go out, are you?”

Fushimi stares at the blond for a while. _Yeah,_ he thinks to himself, _I’d like it to._ But rats can’t open windows by themselves, and it would be stupid to even think about it, so Fushimi snorts and just says:

“That’s ridiculous. What kind of person thinks a rat could open a window by itself?”

“Oi,” Misaki immediately flares up again, “don’t make fun of-”

“It’s okay, Misaki, er, Yata-chan,” Totsuka swiftly cuts in, a serene smile on his lips. “He’s right, after all.”

Misaki grumbles something along the lines of “yeah but he’s an asshole” not so discreetly and Fushimi wants to make a comment about how he’s just being plain stupid now, but his eyes lock with Totsuka’s, and at the intensity of the gaze, he feels a shiver run down his spine. _I know you thought about it,_ reads his stare, and Fushimi looks away guiltily, clicking his tongue— _I didn’t._

“What are you doing at this time of the day anyway, Misa- Yata-chan?” Totsuka says, chuckling.

“Heh?” the redhead says, then seems to process the question—so slow, Fushimi thinks, and he clicks his tongue, _annoying—_ “ah! I was on my way to the launderette. I needed to do my laundry.”

“Pointing out the obvious,” Fushimi mutters, and a snicker almost escapes his lips when Misaki slams him against the wall— _such short temper too._

“Goodness, Misaki- Yata, I mean, don’t do that,” Totsuka gasps, and takes a few steps toward them to reprimand him, “you’re gonna hurt him.”

Fushimi clicks his tongue and throws the blond a scathing look with his gaze.

“Hurt me? This small thing? He’s been at it for ten minutes, do I look in pain?” he emphasizes where necessary, and rolls his eyes. His body roughly meets the wall again as an answer, and Misaki’s grip on his collar tightens.

“What did you say, monkey?” the redhead mutters, and Fushimi can feel his fists digging into his collarbones.

The boy opens his mouth to answer _—“planning on hurting me, Misaki?”—_ but a hand seizes them both by the shoulders and hauls the redhead off him.

“That’s about enough, you two,” Totsuka reprimands, and although there’s a cheerful note in his tone, Fushimi knows the underlying warning, “you’re gonna wake the whole building up.”

Fushimi clicks his tongue in reply and readjusts his collar, not missing the red mark his fist left on his skin.

“Whatever,” he mutters, and he can feel Misaki’s gaze on him—Totsuka shuffles slightly, but he doesn’t say anything.

He turns to look at his left, set on seeming fascinated by the white paint on the walls, and suddenly the only thing filling the air is the sound of Misaki’s foot tapping lightly on the floor. So annoying.

“My, my,” Totsuka sighs after a while, and the two boys turn to look at the man, “you two really are a pair of problem children.”

“It’s him!” Misaki responds in an exasperated tone, shoving an accusing finger in Fushimi face.

“Please don’t do this, again” the bespectacled boy mutters, “it’s also rude to point your finger at random people.”

“Yeah well _you’re_ rude,” Misaki snaps back, and his finger pokes Fushimi nose lightly. Something buzzes near them.

“Says the one who’s pointing his finger so close to my face,” Fushimi quirks and eyebrow, clicking his tongue.

He smirks as Misaki opens his mouth to continue their aimless argument, but he’s cut by a soft gasp, and they both turn to look at Totsuka. The blonde is holding a phone in his hand, and is making a concerningly worried face for someone who was all smiles and cotton candies a few minutes ago.

“You,” he says, pointing a slender finger at Fushimi, “what color was the rat?”

Fushimi frowns—what the fuck?—but the blonde seems too serious to be ignored, so instead he tries to remember how the rodent looked.

“It had topaz-looking fur,” he replies after a while, and Totsuka nods, going back to his phone as if he didn’t just ask the oddest question Fushimi’s ever received.

Fushimi turns to look at Misaki and arches an eyebrow as if to say _“What the fuck is going on with your friend?”_. The redhead can apparently read minds, because he just crosses his arms and shrugs— _I don’t know_. The boys stare at the blond for a few minutes, until his phone buzzes again and he lets out a soft “ah”.

“Did you,” the man says as he looks up at Fushimi, “by any chance, leave your door open today?”

Fushimi glances briefly at Misaki, who looks as confused as him, and then thinks for a while.

“Yeah,” he responds thoughtfully, “when I came back from the supermarket. I was carrying heavy stuff,” he adds as Totsuka tilts his head. And then he remembers, “your door was open. A tall guy wearing sunglasses waved at me when I walked past it,” he clicks his tongue at the memory.

“Totsuka, you alright?” Misaki asks softly, tilting his head with worry apparent on his face, and Fushimi silently agrees with his question—but hell if he’s going to admit it.

The blonde just types something on his phone, then smiles sheepishly at Fushimi.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he offers, “The rat is probably Kusanagi’s…”

Fushimi furrows his brows in confusion. _Kusa-who?_

Misaki seems to know the name though, because he straightens up in an unhealthy way—the spinal cord cracking being a proof of it.

“Kusanagi’s?!” he shouts, and Fushimi clicks his tongue— _so loud,_ “he collects rats?!”

“Well, well, Yata-chan,” Totsuka chuckles in an apologetic way, “no need to yell like that. And no, he _keeps_ them.”

“That’s basically the same thing,” he deadpans, to which Totsuka just chuckles—again, Fushimi thinks, “I don’t really see-”

“Hold up,” Fushimi cuts him off, tuning out the redhead’s protests _(“I was talking, monkey!”)_ by shoving a hand in his face, “you’re telling me there’s a rat in my flat because of that tall swanky-looking guy?”

Totsuka lets out a laugh.

“Well that’s one way to put it, but yeah,” he pauses and seems to hesitate for a while, eyes scanning over Fushimi. Then he adds, “But would you like some help?”

Fushimi frowns at the blond and tilts his head to the side. _Help?_

“I can catch the rat, if you want,” the other explains, a (badly hidden) nervous smile on his lips, “that way you can go back to your flat.”

Fushimi considers the idea for a while. _Yeah, that’d be nice,_ he almost says, but he catches himself before the words reach his lips, and he clicks his tongue instead.

“Why would I need help with that?” he mumbles, looking away.

Totsuka doesn’t answer, instead allowing the atmosphere to settle in an awkward silence. Fushimi finds there are teeth suddenly gnawing on the palm of his hand, and he snaps around, scowling at the sight of Misaki biting him before retracting his arm.

“That’s repugnant, Misaki,” he comments, looking down at the offending hand before wiping it on Misaki’s tee-shirt.

“Fuck off,” the redhead mutters, batting the hand away with his own, “stop acting all mighty when you’ve probably been sitting in the corridor for hours because of a damn rat. And it’s _Yata_ to you.”

Fushimi frowns, and he’s about to snap something back, but Totsuka beats him to it:

“Do you want me to catch the rat?” he asks, voice soft and a smile ghosting his lips.

Fushimi swallows a lump down his throat. Yeah, it would be convenient. That way he could go to sleep and forget about that dumb redhead. But as he fixes his gaze on said redhead, Fushimi realizes agreeing would be admitting that he did spent his time sitting in the corridor since he found the rat, and hell if he’s going to do it. But he’s also tired, he realizes as his eyes scan over Misaki’s face, focusing on his eyelashes and his kind of annoyingly pretty brown eyes, so he looks away before fascinating himself with them and clicks his tongue in annoyance.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Totsuka grins, and he puts his hands in the pockets of his bathrobe before stepping towards his door, “I’ll go get changed, and then I’ll catch that rat, alright?”

He seems far too cheerful for a person as nervous as he was mere seconds ago, Fushimi notes. But there’s something harmless and warm about him, so the boy just rolls his eyes and leans against the wall.

“Alright,” he mumbles, doing his best to look at the floor.

The blond man is almost at his door when his phone vibrates—loudly—and he slightly startles. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and brings it to his ear.

“Kusanagi?” he repeats, sounding confused, but he smiles as a muffled voice replies, “I’d figured you’d call, but not that early,” a pause, “Yeah, your _child_ wandered into a kid’s apartment,”

Fushimi frowns at the choice of words, but Totsuka doesn’t seem to care.

“He said you waved at him when he came back from his grocery shopping. He’s tall, with glasses,” there’s a pause, during which Totsuka brings his free hand to his mouth, nibbling on his nails, “eah, it’s him.”

Yet another pause, Fushimi glances at Misaki, and he’s secretly glad to see the boy is as perplexed as him. Totsuka scratches the back of his head, stifling a yawn.

“Actually, I was planning on catching it before work. It would stay in my apartment until I come home, yeah.” There’s what sounds like a muffled gasp at the end of the line, and Fushimi narrows his eyes in suspicion. “You sure about that?” Totsuka says, and the bespectacled boy doesn’t miss the nervous glance thrown in his way.

“This afternoon? Hey, it’s not going to die because I touched it once,” Totsuka sighs as a muffled voice answers, “where else do you think he’s gonna stay, dimwit?” he mutters, massaging his forehead, and there’s another pause, before the blond lets out another sigh, “I guess it can’t be helped. Yeah, I’ll tell him. Yeah.”

Totsuka grins softly at the answer he gets, and he wraps his free arm around his waist.

“Just so you know, you’re the absolute worst. Yeah, good day to you too,” he says, and he hangs up, still smiling softly.

Misaki shifts nervously to Fushimi’s left.

“Did something happen?” he inquires, worry laced in his voice.

“Yata-chan,” Totsuka carefully calls, and the redhead immediately straightens himself up, “I need a favor.”

☆

Fushimi groans as Misaki steps away to let him in, Totsuka — now fully dressed—waving at them as he strolls towards the stairs, and the boy is pretty sure the blond is _smirking._

“Stop groaning, already, monkey,” Misaki says, closing the door when he can no longer see Totsuka, “it’s not like I asked for this either,” he adds after locking the door, carrying his laundry basket as he walks towards the living room, and Fushimi follows him.

He recognizes the layout of the redhead’s flat to be the same as his, but the difference between the two places strikes him. First of all, instead of a grey clothes horse under the huge windows at the corner of the living room, there are a washing machine and a dryer—Fushimi frowns.

“Weren’t you going out to do your laundry?” he quips, as Misaki puts his laundry basket on the washing machine.

“Hah?” the boy turns around with a frown, and Fushimi points a finger at his washing machine. “Oh,” he smiles sheepishly and pats the machine, “it’s broken.”

Fushimi arches an eyebrow, but Misaki ignores him and closes the curtains, hiding the view of the night sky the windows so beautifully display—another change, Fushimi observes as he remembers the distasteful grey blinds in his apartment. The boy steps closer in the room, taking note of the rectangular white table sitting in the middle of the room, wooden chairs at each of its sides. An old, black laptop lays on it, and Fushimi snickers condescendingly as he sees enormous blue characters forming the words _“you’ve lost!”_ on the black screen.

“Not much luck on the 52th level, hm, Misaki?” he teases when he spots the red _“65 lives lost on the level - 1038 losses”_ at the bottom corner of the screen.

“Fuck off,” Misaki mutters as he closes his laptop with a little too much strength—Fushimi smirks—seizing it before proceeding to stomp off to his room. “Follow me, I’ll show you where you’re going to rest your ungrateful ass. And it’s _Yata,_ monkey.”

Fushimi clicks his tongue in response, and he’s about to say that Misaki is a rude, short ginger when he sees it—and wonders how he missed it. There’s a bar, a wooden bar, the top covered by sparkling white marble, separating half of the room in two; the fridge, sink, shelves, and microwave on one side, and space and thin air—where Fushimi’s table is—on the other one.

“A bar,” he says flatly, and he almost slaps himself for turning into Captain Obvious.

Yet Misaki doesn’t seem to care, because he turns around excitedly and says with a huge smile on his face.

“Pretty cool, isn’t it? It’s Kusanagi who got the idea. It’s cool, right?”

Fushimi furrows his brows, and he glances at the bar, brushing the marble with a finger,.

“It’s,” _pretty cool, yeah,_ “a waste of space.”

Misaki deflates, but he straightens himself up right after, and grins.

“Yeah, whatever you say! I bet you think its super cool!”

Fushimi clicks his tongue and looks away, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I didn’t,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, yeah,” Misaki knowingly grins, before adding proudly, “I changed my door, too! Look how cool it is!”

And even though Fushimi tells himself he _doesn’t care,_ he still looks behind the other boy to see a sliding wooden door. It’s very sleek, made of black ash, with small rectangular windows on it—Fushimi counts twelve of them on both sides, mobile and immobile—and the redhead looks so proud that he finds himself unusually nodding.

“Yeah,” he mutters quietly, hoping the other boy wouldn’t hear him—but he does, because he laughs and Fushimi feels the need to punch himself in the face for being the source of his infectious chuckle.

“Not such a waste of space then, heh?” Misaki proudly says, sliding the door open, and putting his laptop on his queen sized bed after switching on the light.

Fushimi clicks his tongue and steps in the room, taking a brief moment to take in his surroundings. Most of the room is, of course, occupied by the enormous bed. In contrast to the white walls and the hard wooden floor of his own room, Misaki’s are a pale shade of lavender and the floor is carpeted. Misaki doesn’t have any desk, but he does own a TV—and a pretty big one—and while Fushimi’s own wardrobe is located near his door, against the wall, Misaki’s lies in the corner.

Misaki flops down on his bed, and Fushimi narrows his eyes when he still hasn’t seen any mattress. He steps outside of the room and looks behind him—maybe he missed it on his way? But there’s no mattress anywhere, and the boy frowns— _was he talking about an air mattress?_ However, even after staring at every piece of furniture for three minutes five times in a row, Fushimi gives up, 95% sure Misaki’s planning on having him sleeping on the floor. He’s about to snap out a comment about how bad of a host it would make of him when he notices the redhead is lying on the right side of the bed, laptop at his feet, and innocently staring at him—then it hits him.

“You’re kidding me,” he says, and it’s more of a hopeless prayer than an actual question. And Misaki was probably expecting this reaction, because he sits up and crosses his arms defensively on his chest.

“What, you want to sleep on the floor?” he retorts, seeming oh so offended.

“You’re kidding me,” Fushimi repeats flatly, and then he snaps out of his broken-record mood, straightening himself up, “I’m leaving. Bye, Misaki.”

He turns on his feet and starts walking away, because _there’s no way in fucking hell he’s going to sleep in the same bed as Misaki._

It seems the redhead has other plans, because there’s a loud thud along with a “hey!”, footsteps running in his direction and a hand catches his wrist, yanking him around—and almost into the precious bar. Fushimi scowls and shakes his arm in an attempt to free himself, but the stupid ginger only tightens his grip on his wrist.

“Please let me go,” Fushimi says, “it’s very rude to grab random strangers, whatever your reason.”

“I’m not letting you go,” Misaki petulantly shoots back, and he stomps his right foot on the floor to emphasize his point—or to refrain from pushing him in the face, Fushimi isn’t quite sure.

“Yes, you are,” the bespectacled boy argues, “I’d rather stay outside until that damn rat is picked up than sleep with you.”

Misaki’s grip on his wrist loosens a little, and the taller of the two notices a soft blush spreading across the redhead’s cheeks.

“I-it’s not sleeping with me!” he stutters, and okay, if he wasn’t holding on Fushimi for dear life after throwing insults at him in a corridor at night (and if he wasn’t so damn loud, but Fushimi pretty sure that even parallel universes failed at that), he might find it cute—but he is, so Fushimi clicks his tongue and mentally snickers “virgin” because he’s too tired to say it out loud. “You’re staying here,” he adds more quietly.

Fushimi arches an eyebrow.

“No, I’m not,” he replies, and tries to pry himself out of the redhead’s iron grip with his free hand. Misaki hisses at the coldness, and it’s only then that he realizes that his hands are kind of frozen—and that he can’t feel his toes. Maybe staying in the corridor for so long had far worse consequences than he expected, Fushimi realizes, and he lets go of the other’s arm.

Misaki’s grip on his wrist softens a little, and the redhead wraps his free arm around his own waist. He raises his chin like he did earlier, and makes an angry face.

“And what are you going to do, outside?” he barks, “sleep on the frozen floor? Wait for Totsuka and Kusanagi, in those clothes? You’re gonna die of pneumonia before the sun even rises- hell, you’ll catch death before that, and Totsuka will bring your way back to life only to kill you again for disobeying him. And then he’ll kill me,” he adds in a tiny whisper, before continuing on his exaggerated rant more firmly, “you’re staying here, even if you don’t want to.”

“So because Totsuka said so, you’re going to follow his orders and keep me here?” Fushimi bites back, and he pulls his arm towards himself, causing the shorter male to stumble a little on his feet, “That’s ridiculous,” he clicks his tongue, “let me go.”

“I’m not… letting you go,” Misaki pants, digging his nails into the taller’s skin, and he takes a deep breath before continuing, “I’m not letting you go. You’re gonna stay here, and that’s it. You want to freeze to death in the corridor? Fine by me, but not tonight. Tonight you sleep in the bed,” he emphasizes on the word with a blush, “and you wait until Kusanagi’s rat has left your flat. Then you can do whatever the fuck you were doing up until we met, but until then, your ass is staying in my damn apartment. And if you don’t want to, then fine by me, I have sellotape, so I’ll just tape you to the mattress and it’ll be too bad if it itches! And I’m not just following orders! I have billions of reasons, alright? For example, I need to know your name, so you won’t be able to repeat that stupid “it’s rude to do this or that to strangers” line over and over again! I also don’t want to step on your dead, lanky body on my way to the laundry, it’d be traumatizing! And earlier I said I would kick your sorry ass, so y-yeah, you need to stay here so I can keep my word! I have tons of reasons, a-alright!” the redhead stutters out, red dusting his cheeks and taking a long, deep breath, before closing his lips to form a thin line, brown eyes boring into Fushimi’s blue ones as to dare him to refute his words.

His grip is warm, Fushimi notices, probably warmer than anything in the whole damn fucking apartment, and he doesn’t know if he’s annoyed or just taken aback, but either way it makes his damn knees shake a little. He thinks about staying outside until Totsuka and the swanky guy he saw earlier come to catch the rat, and alright, maybe that stupid ginger’s right, maybe it’s too cold for him to sit on the floor for hours, maybe he’s better here, with Misaki’s stupid warm fingers wrapped around his wrist. He breaks the eye contact and looks away in annoyance, blaming it all on lack of sleep and that damn rat and that damn stubborn shorty who won’t let him go when they were at each other’s throat not even thirty minutes ago. The nails digging in his skin disappear, making way for more skin and warmth, and it’s unfair, because Fushimi finds himself unable to say or do something that would turn the situation to his advantage, and he doesn’t feel even like he has the heart to resist anymore. So he just sighs, clicks his tongue, and looks at the sliding door behind Misaki.

“Fushimi Saruhiko,” he mutters, and he’s sure the grip on his wrist got warmer because his cheeks suddenly feel very hot. He locks eyes with Misaki, whose face looks like a mix between confusion and bewilderment, and grunts, “you asked for my name, so here you go.”

There’s a small silence, before a soft—but wide—smile spreads on Misaki’s lips, and the room becomes a tad brighter.

“Thanks, Saruhiko,” he says in the gentlest voice Fushimi’s ever heard, and the boy forgets to tell him that it’s Fushimi, not Saruhiko. His hand gently squeezes his wrist before deserting it, leaving only a ghost of warmth on the pale skin. Fushimi clicks his tongue—what an annoying feeling.

“I’ll leave as soon as the rat is caught,” he warns, crossing his arms.

“Sure,” Misaki chuckles, and they stay silent for a while, one smiling and the other looking away.

The redhead then strolls towards the bar, picking a water bottle and gulping down half of its content, “Do you want something to drink?” he says, wiping his mouth, “I got cola, if you want. Or do you want coffee? No, coffee wouldn’t do you any good if you’re sleepy. Are you sleepy?”

Fushimi arches an eyebrow—how can someone ask so many questions in such little time?—and clicks his tongue.

“I’m not sleepy,” he mutters, “but I’ll pass on the offer.”

“Hah?” Misaki exclaims, “You’ve been freezing in the corridor for like, what, two hours? A lot of time? And you don’t even want to drink something? What the fuck, Saruhiko.”

Fushimi hisses at the use of his name, and walks to the bedroom.

“I’m just not thirsty, that’s all,” he shrugs, poking the bed with his forefinger.

“Well you should still drink something,” Misaki argues behind him, “you know, eight glasses of water every day?” The redhead lets out a “hah”, and Fushimi hears a drawer being opened and closed behind him, then the sound of metal meeting porcelain, “I bet you don’t even have them.”

The taller boy clicks his tongue and turns around.

“And why,” he starts as he is graced with the view of Misaki munching on what seems to be a chocolate fondant, dark brown crumbs covering his mouth—so indecent, “should it matter?”

“Well, for chour health, chou know,” the redhead replies, is mouth full, and he gulps down his bite before adding, “It’s good for your body and stuff. Makes you stronger, ya know, wouldn’t do any bad to you,” Fushimi arches an eyebrow, and Misaki smiles, “want some cake? I made it myself! I even made custard to go with it, it’s really good!”

“You’re making a speech about health as you’re munching on a cake,” Fushimi deadpans, and the remark makes the other blush, “great job, Misaki.”

“Yeah, well, who cares,” the redhead mutters, then adds after regaining his composure, “you sure you don’t want anything to eat or drink?”

“No,” Fushimi shakes his head, and watches as Misaki cuts a piece of cake, carefully putting it in a plate.

“Alright,” the boy says, proceeding to cut another piece, “then go ahead and make yourself comfortable,” he glances at fushimi, then adds, “you can borrow a pair of my socks, if you want. There are big woolly ones in the box in the wardrobe. I don’t know your size but I think they’ll fit you,” he smiles, “Ah, and turn the TV on. The remote’s on the bed.”

He strolls to the fridge and rummages in it; Fushimi turns to look at the bedroom. He steps inside the room, and the carpet is so warm he thinks his toes are dancing. He gazes at Misaki, who’s entirely engrossed in his late night fridge raid—hell, he looks like he’s about to get in the appliance—then looks at the wardrobe.

“It won’t hurt if I borrow one,” he mutters to himself, and he makes his way to the furniture, carefully sliding the door open so as to not alert Misaki. His eyes scan over the shelves, quickly spotting the box the redhead mentioned, and he seizes it, deciding to turn a blind eye on how the clothes are messily folded—now’s not the time to turn into the king of cleaning.

The socks are indeed made of all wool, and most of them are black, so Fushimi just pats them until he’s found the fluffiest ones—he was told to make himself comfortable after all, and it’s not like Misaki’s going to notice. He puts the box back on its shelf, and slips the socks on. They truly are fluffy, Fushimi thinks, and he almost sighs of contentment at the warmth. He looks over at Misaki, who’s now pouring milk in a cup—which seems to be a hard task, judging by the concentrated look on his face. He observes him for a while, pouring milk, rummaging in a cupboard of the bar, munching on small piece of his fondant, then he looks away, remembering the boy’s request.

He spots the TV remote pretty quickly—he might take pride in that, alright—and grabs it, pressing the ‘power’ button as he extends his arm towards the huge TV. It takes some seconds, but it turns on and two characters appear on the screen, a tall guy wearing a suit standing behind a smaller one sitting in front of a computer.

“I don’t know, Harold,” the tall guy mutters in a husky voice, “he didn’t seem that dangerous to me.”

“If the machine gave us his number, Mr. Reese, it’s for a reason,” “Harold” answers as he looks up at said-Mr. Reese.

Fushimi watches as the two characters talk about what sounds like a plan, and he’s getting a little into it when a popping sound echoes. He looks over at Misaki to see the redhead running to the microwave, a spoon in his hand and an excited look on his face—what the hell. Fushimi clicks his tongue in annoyance, then looks away. His eyes land on the bed, and he furrows his brows, pondering upon if he should get in or not. It might seem rude if Misaki entered the room and found him laying peacefully under the covers, he thinks, but then again the idiot himself said he should make himself comfortable, so it probably means he won’t say anything if he slides in—he’s going to sleep there, after all—so he settles himself on sitting down.

The bed dips under his weight, and god, he thinks as he shuffles to the left on his knees, the mattress is really soft and comfortable, he wouldn’t have even minded if it swallowed him whole. He sits right before the pillow on the far left, bringing his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, and rests his head on his knees as the microwave beeps again. He brings his attention back to the TV screen, watching as “Mr. Reese” shoots a guy in the kneecap and makes a pun, his friend Harold making a comment about how he should be more discreet. He quickly becomes engrossed in it, so much that he doesn’t notice Misaki until the redhead is standing next to him. Fushimi turns to look at him, and frowns. The idiot is standing there, a tray full of food in his hands, and staring right at him. Fushimi furrows his brows, wondering why the hell he’s just standing there with a stupid look on his face, when a thought strikes him.

“Is this your side of the bed?”

Misaki frowns at the question, confused, before he seems to understand what the other meant.

“Ah, no,” he says softly, shaking his head, “it’s just that you look…” he blushes and looks away to the floor, not finishing his sentence.

Fushimi raises his eyebrows—what the hell?—and waits for Misaki to add something, but the other simply shakes his head and strolls to the end of the bed to put the tray on it.

“Whatever,” he laughs, “doesn’t matter? Do you want me to leave the door open? I usually sleep with the door closed, so, well…” he trails off, scratching the back of his head.

Fushimi shrugs, “I don’t mind.”

“Alright.”

Misaki beams and slides the door closed before strolling towards his own side of the TV. However, he stops midway as he glances over at the TV, and he slightly pouts.

“Ah, it’s yesterday’s episode,” he mumbles to himself, before grabbing the remote and turning the sound up. A loud crash is heard as Mr. Reese’s car hits another one.

Seeming to be satisfied with the volume, the redhead walks the rest of the way, and swiftly slips under the blankets, sighing contently at the warmth as he crosses his legs and covers his chest with the sheets. He shuts his eyes for a while, enjoying the warmth, until he seems to remember Fushimi’s presence, and opens his eyes to look at him. He grins widely, and lifts the blankets with his hands.

“Get in, loser,” he chuckles.

Fushimi blinks, staring at the redhead for a while, then at the covers, and back at the redhead, who sighs. Harold screams on the TV screen.

“I promise I didn’t sleep on this side of the bed, so don’t worry, you’re not going to be graced with atoms that were once part of my being,” he says, then adds with a firmer tone, “so get in, Saruhiko.”

The bespectacled boy stays still for a while, looking at the other as Mr. Reese takes down two guys. He wants to tell Misaki that he doesn’t need to be told what to do and that he’s perfectly fine like that, thank you, but the other boy looks very comfortable under the cover—and god it does look like it’s very, very, very warm and very, very, very soft under those damn blankets. There’s also that weird spark in Misaki’s eyes, and it makes Fushimi cheeks feel very flushed all of a sudden, and he hates it, so to hell with that, the boy thinks, and he slowly sits on the pillow behind him, sliding under the covers after looking away. He hears Misaki chuckles to his right, and he glares at the tray at the end of the bed. It’s literally filled to the brim with food, with several paper plates piled up, pieces of Misaki’s fondant lying on the top one with bread, butter and knives sitting next to it, along with two cups, one kobicha and the other lion. Mr. Reese takes down another guy.

“I’ll kill you if I find out that you lied,” Fushimi mutters.

“Sure,” Misaki laughs, then crawls to the tray, grabbing it and placing it between them. He seizes a piece of chocolate fondant and puts it in a paper plate. He then takes the kobicha cup, and hands it to Fushimi, “I made you hot chocolate.”

Fushimi stares at the cup for a while, then clicks his tongue.

“I told you I didn’t want anything, Misaki, weren’t you listening,” the boy says, and he gently pushes the cup away, “keep it.”

“I’d be a terrible host if I actually obeyed you, Saruhiko,” the redhead replies, and the cup is forced into his hand, “drink it. It’ll warm you up.”

Fushimi wants to argue about how he in fact doesn’t need this stupid hot chocolate and that Misaki can drown in it, but the redhead is already munching on his piece of cake, eyes locked on the TV screen—Fushimi’s pretty sure he’s ignoring him on purpose. The bespectacled boy sighs, and looks down at the cup in his hands. It’s still hot, steam fogging up his glasses, and the cup is warm in his hands—and okay, it doesn’t look that bad, he admits. He glances at Misaki, making sure the other isn’t looking at him, and takes a sip of the beverage. And indeed, it definitely isn’t that bad, even good, he thinks as the taste of chocolate lingers on his tongue. He takes another sip, this time bigger, and he leans against the head of the bed as a shiver runs down his spine.

“There’s cake too, if you want,” Misaki says, snapping him out of his thoughts, and Fushimi looks at him, surprised. The redhead’s eyes are still glued to the TV screen, but there’s a small grin on his face, and the taller of the two internally punches himself in the face for thinking he wouldn’t notice. “It’s really good, you should eat a bit.”

“I’m not hungry,” Fushimi grumbles, clicking his tongue.

“Sure,” Misaki chuckles, and his smile grows wider. Harold shrieks on the TV screen.

☆

Saruhiko drinks his hot chocolate pretty quickly. It takes him less than an episode to finish it, and Yata can see him shivering at the warmth of the beverage. It takes him another episode to reach a hand towards the paper plates and grab a piece of cake; he looks a little wary before his first bite, but the rest of the piece is quickly eaten after it, and soon enough two more pieces of cake have disappeared—and eventually there’s no more food, and the tray, now covered in empty paper plates and crumbs, is left on the floor. He comments the events onscreen with a sarcastic tone, constantly judging the characters for all the bad choices they make—“the plot is obvious”, he deadpans every time—but sometimes, when Misaki glances at him, he catches the ghost of a smile on his lips. But he pretends he doesn’t notice anything at all, and feigns he’s too engrossed in the episodes to even look at him—he’s pretty sure Saruhiko isn’t fooled by the whole act, but he guesses it’s okay, because all he does is click his tongue and mutter “annoying”.

(It’s odd, to have someone at his side like this, on his bed, at a time probably too late in the night or too early in the morning, even odder when this someone is the guy he almost fought with hours ago. Yet when he looks at Saruhiko, be it when the other is playing on his smartphone, munching on a piece of a cake or simply watching the events unfolding on screen, it doesn’t feel that odd; rather, it’s sort of familiar and warm.)

The shot of a gun makes Yata snap out of his thoughts and he blinks, trying to focus on what’s happening on screen. Harold is limping towards the door of his hotel room, and Mr. Reese is walking towards him as he shoots people in the kneecap. Yata wraps his arms around his legs and rests his chin on his knees. The episode has almost reached its climax when he hears a sigh at his left, along with some shuffling. _He’s probably bored,_ the redhead thinks, and he turns to look at Saruhiko.

“Do you want me to change-” Yata starts, but the words get stuck in his throat at the sight before him. There, under his mountain of blankets, lies a pouting—the redhead swears he is—and glasses-less Saruhiko.

“What,” the other grunts, and did it just sound a little sleepy?

“Nothing,” Yata smiles, and he takes in the sight of how actually soft his hair looks before adding, “Are you tired? I can turn the TV off if you want.”

Saruhiko clicks his tongue and looks away, and Yata has to bite back a _fucking giggle_ because he looks like an angry five year old.

“I’m not tired,” the boy mumbles—Yata can see him crossing his arms under the blanket, and, okay, maybe it’s kind of cute, but heck if he’s going to admit it.

“Then why are your glasses on a pillow?” Yata says, pointing at said-glasses to emphasize on his point.

“Please do not point at things with your finger,” Saruhiko mutters, and it’s amazing how his voice seems to gain a little more strength with the sarcasm, “I took them off because they made my ears hurt, that’s all.”

He rubs his eyes and Yata wants to argue about how he bets he’s actually tired, but he decides against it as Saruhiko closes his eyes, uncrossing his arms. He kind of looks pretty, with his hair all around his face and a—somewhat—peaceful expression on his face.

“What, Misaki,” Saruhiko mumbles again, cracking an eye open to look at him, and the redhead quickly turns to look at the TV.

“Nothing,” he chuckles nervously, staring a little too much at Harold’s face, and then he gets an idea, “say, if I were to fall asleep before you tonight,” he pauses, and a low hum indicates him Saruhiko’s listening, “well, uh…” he scratches his hair in embarrassment as Mr. Reese high-fives a guy, “good night, alright? And sleep well. Yeah, sleep well. And don’t break anything while I’m asleep, alright? I have super good hearing, so I’ll hear it, but it’s not a reason! So, okay?”

“Shut up, Misaki, now you’re rambling nonsense,” the other mutters, and Yata sees his legs moving under the blankets.

“Yeah, right,” the redhead chuckles, and he has to refrain from looking at Saruhiko, “just sleep well, alright?”

There’s a low, low, and drowsy hum in reply, and Yata smiles as the credits roll on the screen. He hears Saruhiko’s breathing starting to slow down, and soon enough, the only sound in the room is his even breath.

“Well, then” Yata whispers, “I’ll just watch another episode.”

☆

It doesn’t take long before fatigue also hits Yata. He’s halfway into the episode when he starts yawning, and he has to constantly rub his eyes in order to stay awake until the end. It feels long and a little boring, and Yata spends the whole time wondering if the plot is really that obvious, which ends up in him not fully understanding the whole thing. As soon as the credits appear, he turns the TV off and flops down on his bed.

Or at least he intends to, but just as he’s about to bury himself in the softness of the mattress, he spots Saruhiko’s legs, and _shit,_ he thinks, _how could I forget?_ He glances at the other to check if he’s still asleep, and sighs of relief when he sees that, yes, he didn’t wake up.

He quietly lies down, trying to make as little noise as he can, and lets out a small sigh of satisfaction when his back hits the mattress. He buries himself under the blankets and closes his eye. He can almost feel his dreams reaching out their hands to him when he remembers it, and his eyes snap back open.

“I forgot to put the tray back on the bar,” he mutters, “shit.”

He softly moans in despair, and weighs up the pros and cons of getting up in the cold air of his flat to place a small, poor little tray on his bar.

“It’s too cold,” he attempts to convince himself, and he can almost feel tears streaming down his cheeks at the mere thought of having to step out of his warm, comfortable, bed, “but I’ll probably trip on it when I get out of bed,” he pouts, and he already knows which side is going to win—he’s stepped on his tray too much times already, and he still remembers perfectly the time he put his foot on a fork first thing in the morning.

He sits up with a sigh, getting himself ready to brave the coldness of his flat, and he’s about to step out when there’s a low hum at his left. He starts and looks at the boy next to him.

“Saruhiko?” he whispers, but there’s no reply—only calm, soft and even breathing.

Yata leans towards the other, left hand under the pillow on which Saruhiko’s glasses rest, and his eyes scan over the boy’s face to check if he’s awake or not. It takes him less than five seconds to conclude that yes, Saruhiko’s still asleep, but he finds himself staring at the boy’s face.

He thought that Saruhiko was pretty when he had just taken off his glasses, but he’s even prettier right now. He can see his eyelashes—they’re so long, and beautiful—and even though there’s still a small scowl on his face, It’s much less prominent than when he’s actually awake. He looks relaxed, not totally, but still more than earlier; calm, and Yata feels a smile making its way on his lips. His hair falls prettily on his face, and the other chuckles when he spots a small part of his bangs in his mouth, and before he can even think about it, his hand is already reaching towards his face to brush it back.

His skin is soft under his fingertips, Yata notices as he softly grasps the strands between two fingers and tucks them behind Saruhiko’s ear, and he allows himself to trace the way from the corner of his eyelids to his jawline to check if there isn’t any stray hairs left. Naturally, there isn’t any, but those bangs kind of look like they’re getting in Saruhiko’s eyes, so the redhead brushes them back as swiftly as he can, taking extra care to caress the skin under his fingertips. He brushes back some more stray bangs and gives a last, long caress before taking off his hand when a small, small, small whine leaves Saruhiko’s lips.

Yata freezes and his eyes widen. _Shit, did he actually wake up?_

The redhead swallows a lump down his throat—there goes his life—and he is mentally preparing himself to be killed three times in a row, when the cheek under his hand softly rubs against his fingertips, and Yata bites back a gasp. He holds in his breath and stares down at Saruhiko—whose eyes are still closed, whose breathing is still even, and who’s most definitely still asleep, so what the fuck is going on?

“He must be dreaming,” the boy mutters to himself, “yeah, that’s it.”

But he doesn’t even finish that train of thought, as the rubbing starts again, and Yata freaks out—shit, he probably felt him caressing his face. The redhead feels his cheeks heat up at the mere thought of it, and he suddenly chokes on air because _shit, is Saruhiko unconsciously asking for this?_

He glances nervously at the boy and nibbles on his bottom lip. Well, there’s only one way to know, he tells himself, and he blocks out his other idea of going to sleep and pretending it never happened.

He stays still for a while, afraid Saruhiko is going to wake up, but after some minutes where Yata realizes that won’t be the case, and he takes a deep breath and extends a nervous hand towards the boy’s face— again. The distance seems like light years away and he thinks his heart might give him up before something happens, but he finally reaches it. His skin is soft, kind of like satin, and Yata can’t help but blush as he shyly strokes it. A small whine, just like the one before, escapes Saruhiko lips, and the redhead is about to retract his hand—who knows, maybe he’s awake now—when Saruhiko leans into the touch, eyes closed and the ghost of a smile on his lips. And okay, Yata tells himself, he just looks way much calmer right now, so maybe I’ll just do that for, say, five minutes, and then I’ll go to sleep, yeah. The boy nods firmly to himself, and blocks out the voice in his mind telling him that he’s just glad he found an excuse.

He lies down, leaning on the pillow next to Saruhiko’s, and he creates paths, patterns, things that don’t make much sense really, on the other’s skin. It’s fascinating, really, how sharp his jawline is, how his hair is soft under his hand, how actually pretty he is from up close, or even how he reacts every time Yata strokes a different place, and the redhead feels like he’s unraveling the deepest secrets of the world. He draws more patterns on Saruhiko’s face for a while, then brushes all his hair back so he can “draw” on his forehead. Most of the drawings are meaningless, like guitars and giraffes and flowers, but he finds himself making stars all over the other’s face, and he tells himself it’s only because Saruhiko’s eyes kind of remind him of stars.

As he draws more and more patterns, he feels the drowsiness kicking back in, and he yawns, retracting his hand. As if on cue, Saruhiko shifts in his sleep, hair falling in front of his eyes and in his mouth once again. Yata chuckles, brushing back the strands of hair in his mouth, and he draws a small star on his neck before bringing his hand to his chest. It’s soft and ephemeral, but Yata feels like it’s been uncarved on his fingertip, and a tiny smile makes its way on his lips. He glances at Saruhiko, and his smile widens at the minuscule grin on the other’s face.

“Good night, Saruhiko,” he whispers, and he only has the time to bury himself under his blankets before drowning into deep slumber.

 

(He trips on his tray as soon as he steps out of bed, but at least it’s not on a fork, so he considers it a win.)


End file.
